


Falling in love to make a friend stay

by HistoriaGloria



Series: Undeadwood [2]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Clayson, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon, UnDeadwood, UnDeadwood Mini-series (Critical Role), Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2021-01-23 23:40:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21328588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HistoriaGloria/pseuds/HistoriaGloria
Summary: Matthew is certain that he never wants Clayton to leave. But with the past catching up, how can he ever expect Clayton to stay?
Relationships: Background Arabella Whitlock/Miriam Landisman, Reverend Matthew Mason/Clayton Sharpe
Series: Undeadwood [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1573228
Comments: 4
Kudos: 110





	Falling in love to make a friend stay

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone!!  
Thank you to everyone who read my first Clayson fic, You are my sweetest downfall!  
I'm back, Clayson is fantastic and I love it. These fics are completely separate, so no worries if you haven't read the others.  
Contains spoilers for up to episode 4!
> 
> Also, seen as Samson was such a hit from the last fic, you can find my Clayson playlist here: Have mercy on my soul, preacher
> 
> This chapter title is from Tired and Awake by Oliver Riot:  
Oh no, it's a mistake,  
Falling in love to make a friend stay.  
Disgrace, give me a break,  
Trying to die happy some day.

Matthew isn’t sure when Clayton became so important to him. He can’t pinpoint the moment he looked at the gunslinger and saw Clayton, gentle and affectionate, rather than the standoffish mask that he wears.

Had it happened during those private moments in the church or in Clayton’s room, wrapped in pleasure and darkness and each other?

Had it happened in the nights spent at the Gem Saloon with the others, not actually drinking anything, just watching?

Had it happened in bright fierce looks that Clayton flashes him when they are caught up in some other fucking undead shit?

Matthew can’t work it out. All he knows is that Clayton means the world to him and the idea of him ever being anywhere but here is crushing.

Matthew knows that they both have a history which is chasing after them and that they should deal with that, but… he never wants Clayton to leave.

They are in the Gem Saloon this evening, all five of them, having a quick drink after dealing with some other bullshit for Swearengen. Arabella is leaning a little too close to Miriam, her face flushed with the whiskey she has been drinking. Aloysius is almost lazily flirting with the girls upstairs but most of his attention is on the group. Clayton is sat with his hat low over his face, but Matthew can see him smiling. It is such a wonderful night and Matthew feels so relaxed. He is leaning against Clayton and the gunslinger has his hand gently on Matthew’s shoulder.

“Honestly, cheers to us, right?” says Arabella for the fourth time that evening and Miriam giggles, nodding a little.

“Think you’ve had a bit much there, Miss Whitlock,” teases Aloysius, his only whiskey tight in his hand. “That’s the fourth time you’ve said that.”

“Aw, shut up, Aly,” replies Arabella, tossing her hair back. It’s so normal, so relaxed… Matthew would never want to be anywhere else. He suspects that Clayton and himself are the only ones who are still sober, which he appreciates. It is nice to see the other letting their hair down, sure, but it is nice to know that Clayton has his eyes open all the time.

The man in question gently rubs Matt’s shoulder, not saying anything as the others quip and quibble over whether or not they are drunk.

“Are you okay?” murmurs Matthew and Clayton chuckles lightly.

“Never fucking better, Matthew,” he replies, his voice quiet and private. The reverend beams a little and settles against him.

“I’m glad.”

Everything is going well. Everything is going so well until two people enter the Gem Saloon and Matthew recognises them as the two men who _recognise _him from before. He stiffens immediately and as he does, Clayton notices.

“Matt?” he mutters but Matthew doesn’t respond, and Clay notices his gaze. Matthew has told Clayton about his time in the Cavalry, about the terrible things he did, so late one night. He remembers being curled up in Clayton’s arms, crying messily as he choked out all of the horrors that stalk his nightmares. And the gunslinger had never let him go.

And now, his jaw sets in understanding as these men take a seat, staring at Matthew across the bar.

“I’ll deal with it-”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Matthew mutters. “Leave it, Clay.” The other man huffs beside him, but he doesn’t move and merely wraps his arm tighter around the reverend before responding to Aloysius with a wit as sharp as a knife.

* * *

They stay for a while, Aloysius notices that Annabelle doesn’t have any customers tonight and heads upstairs. The women only last another twenty minutes until Arabella begins to collapse on Miriam and the women decide to take their leave.

“Let me walk with you,” Matthew offers immediately. Miriam is only tipsy, but Arabella is far gone and it would make him feel better if she was walked home.

“Sure, sure.” Miriam agrees. “You coming, Mister Sharpe?”

“I’ll stay here,” Clayton says easily. “I don’t think Mister Whitlock would appreciate me very much. The preacher is much safer.” Matt nods and gives his partner a gentle smile.

“Come along, ladies, let’s get you home.” The three of them head out of the bar and Matthew doesn’t even notice the two gentlemen who continue to sit there as he leaves.

The walk is surprisingly peaceful, with only one instance of gunshots in the distance and a beautifully clear sky.

“The stars are so beautiful,” Arabella murmurs, the walk beginning to sober her up.

“Always trusted them to find my way back,” mutters Matthew, his arm linked with Arabella’s as they walk. Miriam is uncharacteristically quiet, just wandering back with them.

“How are you doing, Reverend?” Arabella asks as they reach the edge of the encampment.

“Oh, just fine, Arabella. Same as always,” he says easily. Miriam gives him one of her looks at that, a fierce and disbelieving gaze but he doesn’t say anything else. He is used to this kind of look by this point and it isn’t going to make him say anything he doesn’t want to.

“Good. You and Mister Sharpe seem very happy.” Matthew can feel the blush rising on his cheeks but he just nods.

“As do you and Miss Miriam here,” he responds carefully and Arabella laughs, loud and bright.

“I should hope so,” Miriam responds, but there is no fire to it, no venom in her words. They are all quiet for a good few moments as they head up towards Arabella’s home.

“Do you think he’ll stay?” Arabella asks quietly. Matthew doesn’t need to ask to know she is talking about Clayton. The gunslinger isn’t one to stay in any town for any length of time and Matthew knows that there is a bounty on his head.

But also, the idea of Clayton leaving crushes him.

“I hope he does,” Matthew says quietly. “I would miss him greatly.”

Miriam takes his arm and nods.

“We all would. I know you would miss him more. It is so clear that you love each other, darling.” Matthew’s cheeks are on fire, but he nods.

“I hope he will stay,” Matthew repeats, unsure of what else to say. They head up towards the house and Arabella smiles, kissing Miriam’s cheek.

“Thank you for walking me back. I’ll see you tomorrow, yes?” The reverend nods and Miriam smiles.

“Sleep well, my darling,” Miriam says as Arabella goes inside.

“Back into the encampment?” Matthew asks and they begin to head back.

“How are you honestly okay, though, Reverend?” Miriam asks as soon as they are on their way back into Deadwood.

“I am,” Matthew says, but even he doesn’t sound convinced to himself. Miriam doesn’t even speak; she just raises one eyebrow. He sighs. “I’m worried about Clay leaving. I know he doesn’t want to stay in Deadwood, but I can’t leave the church and… I really don’t want him to go.” She loops her arm around Matt’s and sighs.

“I know. I think he’ll stay, though, darling. I think you mean enough to him.”

“Thank you, Miriam. And, I guess… Thank you. For keeping your eyes on us.” Miriam chuckles softly.

“Well, we gotta stick together out here in a lawless place like Deadwood.”

* * *

It isn’t until he has walked Miriam back to the Bullock Hotel, until he has said goodnight and until he has returned to the Gem Saloon that Matthew realises something is wrong.

Clayton isn’t in the Gem.

It’s fairly late, but Clayton said he would be there and if he isn’t…

Matthew’s throat seizes and he knows, he knows deep in his heart that Clayton has left. He heads over to the bar and Johnny looks up.

“You seen Mister Sharpe?” Matthew asks, trying unsuccessfully to keep his voice level. Johnny looks apologetic.

“He left about ten minutes after you did, Reverend. I don’t think he’s comin’ back. He told me to tell you he was sorry.” Matthew nods but he can feel his heart shattering.

“Thank you, Johnny. You have a good night now.” He turns and walks straight out of the Gem Saloon and down towards the church. He looks composed; he has to. He’s good at hiding, good at playing the fool, at playing the preacher and he can definitely hide a broken heart. Matthew strides, careful and calm, right up to the church. He heads upstairs immediately, not even entering the church itself.

Matthew manages to get all the way into his room before he breaks.

He collapses on to his knees at the foot of the bed and trembles as he begins to cry. He had been _so sure _Clayton wouldn’t just up and leave. He had been _so certain_. Look at where that has got him.

He wants to be angry, to scream, to wail, but he can’t bring himself to get off the floor, head bowed as though in a mockery of prayer. There he sits, for a few long minutes when he hears a noise through the floorboards.

Someone is in the church.

Matthew scowls and grabs his shotgun. If it’s some fucking drunkard or those two fuckers who _know, _he is going to end them, with God as his witness. Down the stairs he thunders and opens the doors, finding the lock jimmied open.

“Alright, show yourself!” Matthew roars into the church and there is a single figure, sat on the first pew, hunched over so much that Matt can’t tell who it is. When he yells, the figure jolts in surprise and twists, hissing out in pain.

Matthew would be able to tell that hat anywhere.

“_Clayton_,” he breathes, abandoning the shotgun on the nearest pew as he runs down the aisle. There are no candles lit within the church and the gunslinger is lit only by the bright moonlight which filters in through the ragged windows, but it is enough. Matthew can tell something is wrong. Clayton is hunched over himself and as he approaches, he can smell the unmistakable scent of fresh blood.

“Clayton?” he asks, coming to kneel in front of him.

“Hey,” mutters the other, teeth gritted together. “You got a fucking bandage or something?” Matthew looks him up and down and he is holding all across his stomach and chest in a way that is familiar to the Reverend.

Buckshot.

Matthew says something which really shouldn’t be said in a church and moves over.

“What the fuck were you doing, Clay?” he hisses, taking the gunslinger’s free arm and putting it around his neck. He is strong enough to carry Clayton; it has definitely occurred before, but usually in a much more enjoyable setting.

“Later,” grunts the man, letting the Reverend pick him up mostly. “Can we sort this first?”

“Fine, fine,” mutters Matthew, beginning to get him towards the stairs. The journey is slow going; Clayton barely has the energy to lift his legs and Matthew is beginning to spot the steady trail of blood down the church aisle to where he was sitting. But after a while and some very awkward manoeuvres up the stairs, he gets Clay sat down on the bed in his room.

“Stay there, I’ve got a kit here.” He pulls out whatever he has in his room and sighs. It’s far too late to be going to the doctor’s and Clayton has lost too much blood already. It has certainly been a while since Matthew had patched someone up, but old habits die hard and he grabs a pair of tweezers.

“Buckshot?” he asks, just to confirm his suspicions and Clayton nods. “Alright, lie back. And here, drink this. It’s going to hurt.” He passes him a flask of whiskey from under his table and then approaches.

Clayton is a mess. His shirt is in tatters, blood-soaked and sticking to the skin, but Matthew doesn’t have time to care. He cuts the shirt straight off him.

“If ya wan’ed me naked, coulda asked…” mumbles Clayton and the slur to his words sends spikes of ice through Matthew.

“Shh, now, Clay. Drink your whiskey, I’m gonna take good care of you,” he murmurs, gripping the tweezers in a panic. And then, he reaches forward and begins to pull the shards of buckshot out of Clayton’s abdomen.

* * *

It takes the reverend far too long to patch Clayton back up. He is thorough in removing all of the buckshot, not wanting the other man to get an infection and Clayton is mainly silent throughout, grinding his teeth so hard that Matthew can hear it. But sewing the wounds shut is somehow worse. Clayton makes desperate pained sounds as Matt pulls the needle through and as they get to the latter wounds, he seems almost delirious, muttering about having to go, about not having enough time and saying that _he _is coming. Finally, as Clayton slips into an uneasy sleep, Matthew bandages the wounds and stands up.

His hands are shaking in a way they haven’t done for a very long time. They are bloody, marks of the things he had to do to keep Clayton alive and suddenly Matthew feels sick to his bones.

What had happened to Clayton?

How much time had he wasted thinking that the gunslinger had left him when he was waiting for him downstairs?

He cleans his hands roughly with a cloth and a bit of the left-over whiskey before he lies down beside Clayton. Sleep won’t come easy tonight. 

Matthew wakes several times in the night, his dreams full of fire and gunshots and his waking moments filled with pouring over Clayton, who is sleeping deeply. His breaths are weak and raspy, but he doesn’t appear to be in any danger now.

Morning brings bright light and Matthew for the first time in his life shoots up in bed, ready to take on anything. He turns to find Clayton still out beside him, his bandages still white in the weak light and Matthew exhales with relief.

He’s here. He’s going to be okay.

In the time it takes Matthew to change and make coffee, Clayton wakes and when the reverend comes back into the room, warm blue eyes are on him.

“Clayton, you’re awake,” he breathes and hurries over, placing the coffees on the table.

“Matthew,” is all he says, and the reverend is cupping his face in seconds, stroking his thumbs over that familiar moustache.

“What did you do, Clay? I thought you had left Deadwood for good. Johnny told me as much.” 

“M’sorry, Matty,” he croaks out and Matthew’s heart shatters. He only calls him Matty when he desperately needs something. “M’so sorry. I had meant to go. And I was leaving, and I knew I shouldn’t leave you… So I headed back towards Bella’s place and I saw those two fuckers who have been on to ya… I didn’t want you and Miriam and Bella to get hurt, so went for them, but my aim was little off. They caught me as they went down.” Matthew’s gut clenches sharply. The gunfire that they had dismissed as usual Deadwood sound last night had been Clayton.

“Clayton,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to his forehead, but he’s not done yet.

“They’re dead, I made fucking sure of it. Because… I can’t leave you, Matty. Fuck me… I can’t leave Deadwood if you’re staying here.”

“Clay, there’s nothing to forgive. There’s nothing. You stayed and I’m sorry I didn’t get to you sooner,” Matthew whispers against his forehead, pressing a few more kisses there.

“Thank you for sorting me out,” replies Clayton and he drops a line of kisses against Matthew’s jaw.

“Always. Now, you stay right here, okay? I’m not having you rip all those stiches.”

“Fucking rich, coming from you,” grunts Clayton in return and Matthew blushes, thinking of all the times he has completely ignored the advice to stay put. But Clay is smiling and Matt just rolls his eyes, coming to lie in bed beside the other man.

“So, you’re hanging around?” he asks hopefully and Clayton laughs.

“Yeah, Matty. I ain’t going anywhere without you.”

“Good,” Matthew replies and leans over him to kiss him properly.

Deadwood may be a shithole, but here, with Clayton, this is a place he feels at home.

**Author's Note:**

> Come chat to me on twitter or tumblr, HistoriaGloria! Always here for screaming about Critical Role


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